The Devil's Cave: A Bruno Courrèges Investigation (Bruno Chief of Police 5)

the Dragon’s Teeth that had guarded the entrance to the tunnel. One of the great pillars had been tossed onto its side, crushing a rack of jugs that were slowly being transformed into stone. Beside it lay Foucher’s body under a blanket, on the spot where the blast of a Gendarme’s shotgun had felled him. Another pillar had rolled half into the lake, crushing a pedal-boat, and the third still stood, a fat, phallic sentinel above a secret underworld that Bruno knew he wanted to start exploring. He’d have to talk to Miko about joining a cave exploration club.
    But right now he wanted to go home, to feed his chickens and ride his horse and walk his dog and then to have a bowl of soup and sleep the clock round. He put down the towel and dressed in the garments the Baron had brought. As if it were a signal, the Mayor came forward and steered him to one of the TV cameras where he submitted to a brief interview on the dramas of the day.
    ‘Home?’ asked the Baron. Balzac was tucked into the crook of his arm and he handed the puppy to Bruno. ‘Dinner’s on me if you want it, but you look like you need some sleep. You’ll find quite a welcome outside.’
    ‘Home,’ Bruno agreed, relishing the soft rasp of Balzac’s tongue on his ear. He braced himself for whatever awaited in the open air. At first, he just stood and looked at the sky, amazed that it was still light, even more amazed at how blue it was. The evening sunlight looked unbelievably fresh and perfect after his hours underground. Then he saw the beaming faces and heard the welcoming shouts of his friends and neighbours. He shook hands and kissed cheeks all the way back to the Baron’s car. He paused to kneel down and kiss Florence’s twins, and then their mother, accepting an invitation to dinner the following evening.
    He’d just got his hand on the door of the Baron’s lovely old Citroën DS when he heard Ahmed calling his name and hurrying his way through the crowd.
    ‘We’ve got a call-out and it sounds like your place,’ he said, his mouth to Bruno’s ear and his voice low. ‘Maybe you’d better not go back until I get confirmation. I’ve got an engine on its way, should be there by now.’
    ‘You mean a fire? At my place?’ Bruno asked, seeing the answer in Ahmed’s eyes. He jumped into the car and told the Baron to drive like the wind, wondering how and why but already suspecting he knew the answer. He held Balzac tightly to him as he heard the sound of the siren behind him. Ahmed was following in the little command car. He turned to face forward, thinking of the house he’d built with his own hands,of his ducks and chickens and the garden he’d made, of the wine in the cellar and his books on the shelves.
    There were two fire engines at work when he arrived but only one was still jetting water onto the roof of the house. There were black scorch marks around the broken windows of the living room and kitchen and the entrance door had gone. His ducks and chickens were all right. The barn and his bedrooms had been spared.
    ‘It could be a lot worse. We were lucky somebody saw smoke from the road and called it in,’ said Ahmed, coming to stand at his shoulder. Raymond was with him, the crew captain of the second fire engine. ‘It was just the curtains in the kitchen. All the real damage is in the living room.’
    ‘How did it happen?’ Bruno asked.
    Raymond led him forward to the smashed window of the sitting room, the walls charred black and the furniture in smoking ruins.
    ‘That glass on the floor is not just from your window,’ said Raymond. ‘It’s a bottle, and you can smell the petrol as well as I can. Somebody threw a Molotov cocktail inside.’
    ‘Jesus,’ said the Baron. ‘What sort of sick bastard would do this?’
    ‘They tried the same in the kitchen but just hit the outside of the window frame,’ Raymond said.
    Raymond led Bruno round to the back and pointed to the petrol cap hanging loose from the side of Bruno’s elderly Land-Rover. He then gestured at the bottle tree where Bruno stored his empty wine bottles until it was time to fill them again from the annual hogshead he shared with the Baron.
    ‘It looks like they used your bottles, your petrol,’ Raymond said. ‘I’m sorry.’
    ‘It wasn’t a They,’ said Bruno. ‘It was a she. And I don’t think she’s finished yet.’ He turned to the Baron. ‘How fast can you get me to Pamela’s place? I think she’ll go for my horse next.’
    The